


Eulogy

by FrodaB



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Destroy Ending, Endgame, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrodaB/pseuds/FrodaB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...he wants me to speak. He wants me to give a eulogy at Anderson's memorial service.”</p><p>Garrus watches Shepard grapple with finding herself alive after the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eulogy

“I talked to Hackett today,” she says, her voice sounding sudden and sharp in the unnatural quiet of the prefab they've claimed (near the docks, of course, near the _Normandy_ ). It's way too quiet, as far as Garrus is concerned – no low rumble of the drive core, very few of the usual sounds of technology and spaceflight lately. It's unnerving. And so is Shepard, in some ways.

He ignores all of that, focuses on her, on them, which is the most important thing. His arms go around her body – carefully, as she's still healing. “Oh?” he asks quietly. “What did he have to say? Repairs going all right?”

She doesn't talk much about the ship, maybe because talking about the ship means she'd have to talk about EDI, and he can even feel her tense a little in his embrace, but she shakes her head. “It wasn't about that. It – he wants me to speak. He wants me to give a eulogy at Anderson's memorial service.”

Garrus has become pretty good at reading Shepard's body language, facial expressions, tone of voice – strange as they seem to a turian, he knows her as well as anyone, he thinks, but right now, he has no idea what to make of her words – whether she thinks this is a good thing or not. His mandibles flare a little in confusion. “What... did you tell him?” he finally asks.

“That I'd think about it,” she says, one hand running over the scarred side of his face absently. “Everyone important who's still alive and here will be there. I'm not -”

“Hey, you're always great with the motivational speeches as far as I'm concerned,” Garrus points out, keeping his tone light.

“This is different,” she insists quietly. “Sending soldiers into a fight is one thing. But talking to a bunch of diplomats and politicians? And it should be about him, not about _Commander Shepard giving a eulogy_ , anyway.”

“Of course it will be,” Garrus responds with a firm nod. “You'll make sure of it, either way.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, sighing as she finally allows herself to relax into sleep. It won't be for long – a few hours, tops, and she'll start trembling and crying out with the nightmares. But she makes an effort, at least. She always makes the effort.

\-------- 

They walk to the dock every morning – usually just after dawn, the gray, watery sunlight brightening the haze of ash only slightly as the ruined city slowly starts rebuilding, coming back to life. Garrus suspects that here on Earth, as on Palaven, or Thessia, or some of the other worlds hit hardest by the Reapers, that it will be years before things begin to look as they once did. He regrets that, a little. He would've liked to see London in its original state. Would've liked to show her Cipritine.

She only rarely enters the _Normandy_ , usually opting instead to stand at the fence line, watching from a distance. It's the exercise, ostensibly – she needs to get her strength back, and she'd go stir crazy within a couple of days if she didn't move around, anyway. The leg braces are working out better than Garrus thought they would – perhaps those Cerberus implants really are good for something, still. But it doesn't stop him from watching her carefully, ready to reach for her if she stumbles, ready to offer support if she gets too tired. And shoot a glare in the direction of any passing well-wishers, while he's at it. She's gotten good at being oblivious to the stares.

Her eyes are still sunken in her face, her jaw still a little too sharp – compared to how Garrus knows it should be. But she's alert, her eyes bright and never missing a detail, as always, as she glances over the ship – her ship, like a doting parent checking up on a child. “He hand-picked me,” she says suddenly, her voice quiet, contemplative. Garrus is momentarily confused, feeling as though he's walked in on the middle of a conversation. “We served together on the _Tokyo_ ,” she continues, blithely. “I sought him out, not for a promotion or anything like that. He was a first-generation N7, he'd largely set the bar, I wanted to talk to him, learn from him. Funny thing was – he seemed to want to learn from me, too.”

 _Anderson_ , Garrus' mind finally supplies, piecing it together from what he knew of the man. And the reverence in Shepard's voice.

“He talked about the First Contact War, and I talked about the Blitz,” she continued, her eyes no longer focused on anything in particular. “When he got command of the _Normandy_ , he came to me and asked if I was ready for a promotion. He didn't ask if I _wanted_ it, he didn't even just _tell_ me, he asked if I was _ready_.”

“Sounds like something my dad would say,” Garrus points out, in an attempt to lighten the mood, get her eyes to focus on something again, maybe just make her smile. Well, she does, at least, turn to look at him, though she doesn't seem amused.

“I never had a father,” she says after a moment looking into his eyes. “Not one that would acknowledge me, anyway. Anderson was... someone I could look up to. An example I could set for myself. Maybe it's stupid to admit, but a lot of times, when I make decisions, I think about what he'd approve of.”

Garrus frowns slightly, taking in the vulnerable look on her face, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She accepts the comfort, leaning into him a little, and squeezes her eyes shut against some pain. “No shame in wanting the approval of a man like him,” Garrus points out reassuringly. He didn't know Anderson well, just enough to know he was of the same stuff as Shepard – the same moral fiber, to use the human phrase.

A tear runs down her cheek, and she shakes her head. “The last thing he said to me was that he was proud of me,” she whispers. She looks – ashamed? Garrus takes her hand as they start back toward the prefab, turning it over in his mind.

“He was always proud of you,” he finally murmurs, and feels her hand squeeze his.

\-------- 

He knows she's damaged, somehow, on the inside. Physically, of course, she's a mess, though that's getting better. And for a while, he was just so damn glad to see her alive – so damn glad to hear that she'll be able to walk again, eventually, without the braces, so _damn glad_ that she hadn't left him behind again – it took him a while to notice.

Now that he has, though, it's impossible not to see _constantly_. And wonder if the damage is fixable, or if whatever happened has broken something permanently.

She doesn't talk about what happened on the Citadel, except in the vaguest terms. Garrus doesn't pry, much as he might want to. He figures, if she needs to talk about it, she will. _When_ she wants to talk about it. She knows he'll listen, knows he won't pass judgment. But in a lot of ways, they're still on shaky ground, stuck in limbo while she heals and the galaxy starts putting itself back together, with no idea what things look like beyond the next few weeks.

At least, _before_ , the Reapers were always there. Now there is just a big question mark. Some might see it as hope, as possibility, but right now, from where Garrus is standing? He thinks Shepard is feeling a little overwhelmed by it. Like she didn't expect to be in this position.

Like she'd been assuming she would die.

And Garrus doesn't know what to do with that, except what he's always done – be there, for whatever she needs.

\-------- 

There is real, actual sunlight, on the day of Anderson's memorial. Ashy, watery sunlight, sure, but it's definitely there. It's like maybe the grime and muck and decay of the Reapers is finally starting to be washed away, set aside in favor of the reminder of life.

Garrus thinks it's somehow fitting.

They shake hands with a lot of people – diplomats, and politicians, just like Shepard had said. Everyone still on Earth is here. They talk to Kahlee Sanders, the woman from Grissom Academy, the one who'd known Anderson for so long, who'd obviously been important to him. Or rather, Shepard talks to her, voice quiet and soothing and saying the kind of comforting things you always say to the loved ones of a soldier – _his death wasn't in vain, he was a credit to the uniform, his sacrifice will never be forgotten_. Shepard's always been good at that – good at the platitudes, because she always means them completely.

She looks very small, in her borrowed dress blues, her hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks despite the bit of makeup she was able to scrounge up. Her gait is a little awkward, too, and Garrus finds himself wondering if she'll ever walk without a limp again – not that it matters. Not to him. But her eyes are clear with resolve, and her voice never wavers.

The eulogy she gives is exactly what was expected – speaking of Anderson as a great man, a remarkable soldier, his strong will and excellent moral fiber. Despite her demurral, Shepard is good at making speeches, that much Garrus knows, and she has this audience in the palm of her hand. Like her talk with Kahlee, it works because everyone knows she means what she's saying – anyone else, it might've been trite. 

Garrus thinks it's odd, but this is the first time she seems like herself, since he got back to Earth and found her in that medical tent. She's _Commander Shepard_ , the identity is settling on her shoulders more comfortably than the uniform she's wearing. 

“He was proud,” she says, clearly wrapping up, her eyes scanning the crowd, finally landing on Garrus. “Proud of what we accomplished here. Proud of all of us, for doing what should've been impossible.”

Her eyes are clear, steely, determined. _That's my girl,_ he thinks. Not broken, then. Not irreparable.

“And I for one, intend to keep making him proud, wherever he is.”


End file.
